Clean Heart Slate
by Cecelia S. Bradley
Summary: Life goes on. People change, though past events can't ever. And when seeing the present, forgiving the past is easier. And when you finally can, you might wipe your heart-slate clean. Incomplete.
1. Forgiveness

**This is assuming the prologue of **_**The Medusa Plot**_** did not happen. I don't own **_**The 39 Clues**_**.**

"Wait a second, honey. Let me finish steaming the carrots, then I'll be there.

"But, Mama! I want to watch the pots of carrots and beans!"

"There aren't any beans here, Olivia."

The little girl pointed at the television in the corner, her emerald eyes flashing indignantly. "No! Not those carrots. _That_." She toddled over to the cabinet and, thrusting her chubby fingers into the left drawer, pulled out a DVD. "This. Uncle Dan-Dan said it was good!"

Amy walked over to her daughter and knelt down beside her. "You want to watch _The Pirates of the Caribbean?_"

"The pots of carrots and beans," Olivia repeated, satisfaction in her voice. "Let's go! Movie time for Livi! Movie time for me!" she sang as she went to the television.

"Honey, I don't know. You're four years old! Maybe when you're bigger." Amy reached out for her little girl, her eyebrows creased in worry. "You could watch Care Bears instead. How's that?"

"Pot Care Bears," Olivia insisted. She pulled on her mom's braid with every word. "I want pots!"

"Pirate Care Bears? I don't know if we have that, but I'll check." Amy gently pulled on one strand of the brown curly hair cascading down Olivia's tiny back. "Just wait one little second, and I'll find something for you before you can say pirate!" Amy's eyes sparkled mischievously as she picked up her cell phone and called speed dial number 2. (Number one was Dan.)

"Pot. I said it! Now where's the Care Bear Pot?"

"Livi, you didn't say 'pirate.' You said 'pot.'"

As the toddler tried to pronounce this new world correctly, the other end of the phone picked up.

"Hi, Ian. How's work going?...Good. I'm glad. Aren't you glad you're away from those old ladies?...You're right, I suppose. That isn't very nice….Yeah, usually, we're the other way around. Me telling you not to complain about the quality of the hotels and all. Listen, honey, when you come home today, would you stop by the library and pick up a Care Bear Pirates movie? I'm pretty sure there is one….I know you don't like that show, but it's for Livi….We do have enough pirates in the family, but for Olivia?...No, it's not completely stupid. It's cute. And yes, definitely pirates. She wants 'pots,' as she says…Just this once, for your favorite little girl?" Livi squealed with excitement. "Good. See you soon. Bye-bye…Do you still have to call me that? Never mind. Bye."

Amy picked up the little girl and set her on the brown leather couch with a red-and-white-striped pillow propped behind her back. "Daddy's going to bring home your pirates. Now, you can read." She plopped a thin pink book on Olivia's lap. "_Cinderella _was my favorite story when I was little. It doesn't have pirates, but it has magic and evil stepsisters!" She grinned eagerly, looking very excited. "Here you go."

Olivia opened the book eagerly, mumbling the words to herself. "Once upon a time, there was a young girl…"

A smile slowly crept across Amy's face as she remembered her mother giving _her_ that little book. It disappeared as she remembered-"The carrots!" She ran over to the stove, her loose headband flying off to who knows where. Her braid flopped over her shoulder and back behind it as she tried to rescue the soggy orange mess in the grey sieve. This was her state when the home phone rang.

"Was that what the fairy godmother's wand sounded like?" Their home phone was so infrequently used that Olivia did not know the sound. Amy quickly ran to pick it up.

"Kabra house, Amy Cahill speaking," she spoke into the telephone.

"Good day, Amy. It's me, Natalie. Ian's sister."

Amy stared at the phone in shock. She held it from her ear a second, then brought it back to talk.

"Natalie? Is that you?"

"Didn't I say so? I distinctly remember telling you as much."

"You did. I-I just, umm, I didn't expect you to call. Is something the matter?" Amy asked. That was the only reason she could think of that _Natalie Kabra_ will come.

"N-no, of course not. I just wanted to tell Ian-and you-that I have a new job and I'm moving back to London." There was a stutter in Natalie's voice, Amy could tell. And she didn't know why. At all. Maybe she had a cough or something.

"Really? I suppose that's good. But I thought you hated London. You know, what you had said before.

"I used to not, but there's no place like home, you know the old saying? I suppose it will be good to go back again." Maybe it was just the phone, but it sounded like Natalie had something in her throat. Like the "good" was fake. Like it wasn't really true.

"Natalie, are you okay? Is something wrong?" Amy asked.

"No, nothing. Of course not. I get to be the designer of England's most prominent fashion company! I'm feeling splendid. I can't believe that you would think I was _sad_ or anything," Natalie added haughtily, but the haughtiness was not as strong as Amy remembered it.

"Natalie? Are you sure? You're fine?"

"Of course I'm fine. Actually, I'm not. Your worrying is making me quite put out. If you would quit, I'd be much obliged. Now, just tell Ian to call me when he gets home, please and I'll be-"

Something was definitely wrong. "Natalie. Natalie, you're not fine. Something's wrong."

A sigh was heard on the other end of the line. "You're almost as good as a Lucian, Amy."

"But what? Can you tell?"

There was silence for a few seconds, and then Natalie said vehemently, "I hate London. There are too many memories, too many people I used to know. Too many people that knew Isabel."

"Then don't go back there. If you need a place, I'm sure you could stay with us in Manhattan if you need to. I know Olivia would love to have her "Aunt Natee" here." Amy wiped the sweat from her forehead that she hadn't realized had arisen.

"But I need to. You see, that isn't the problem. You know that if I didn't need to go, _I _wouldn't go," Natalie said, sounding a bit more like her normal self. "It's-it's about Isabel. Wow, now I am stuttering too. I didn't realize I could stoop that low."

Amy didn't hear the last part. She only heard one word: Isabel. "Has she escaped?" And then she wished she could swallow those insensitive words down.

"No, she hasn't. I was talking to the prison doctors at Newgate. She-" Natalie coughed a very strange cough, one that almost sounded like a sob. "She has breast cancer. And it's terminal."

Amy dropped the phone. Only the cord saved it from crashing to the ground. Her hand somehow found its way to her mouth. The phone was hanging mid-air with a voice saying, "Amy? Amy?" Amy gave a start and picked up the phone.

"I'm here, Natalie. I'm here. So you're going back to be with her?"

"Lucian," Natalie muttered, then sighed. "Yes." She paused a second, then continued. "You see, Isabel, she isn't the greatest person. You know that." Amy nodded, glad that Natalie's usual tactfulness and careful wording had returned. "But she's still my mum. And, as the years have gone on, I've realized that more. And I couldn't bear if she died in prison alone, without any of us." A sniffle was heard on the other end. "It doesn't seem right."

"Oh, Natalie…" Amy found herself at a loss. "I don't know what to say. I'm really sorry. And you're right, you should go see her. But if you need to come-" Amy chose her words carefully. "If you need to come visit us at any time, I'm perfectly fine with that. And, would you mind if we put a few things in for your mother? You know, to make her feel better?"

Amy could hear Natalie exhale. "Of course. I don't suppose I would mind. I'll talk to you later, I think. Thanks for talking with me. And don't tell Ian. I should. Bye." And Natalie hung up.

Amy sat down heavily in a kitchen chair. She didn't understand. No, it wasn't the situation that baffled her. She understood that as perfectly as anybody could. What she didn't get was why she wanted to help. Not why she wanted to help Natalie, why she wanted to help _Isabel_. The woman that had completely changed her life by killing her parents, the woman who had terrified Amy out of her wits the whole Clue Hunt. Amy wanted to help her.

Time. It must be time. People always told that time worked wonders. Because now, Amy felt like she could love more. She knew that she could live her life without being afraid of death. She saw that hatred didn't always have to go on forever. And she thought that maybe Isabel Kabra could stand another chance.

The umpteenth one, to be sure. But one more chance.


	2. Repentance

Dr. Wells still hadn't told his patient.

He had alerted the daughter and tried to find the woman's husband, but Isabel Kabra still didn't know. When she sent notes to the doctor on newspapers she could find in the prison, asking what the test results were, he said that he needed more time. Which was true. But it wasn't because he hadn't developed results yet. It was because he needed time to prepare himself to give Mrs. Kabra the results.

The doctor was a good man. He actually cared about his patients, though they were all criminals of the highest degree, and when their only hope they could dare dream of was escaping this horrible grey place, he could not bear to tell them, "That's not going to happen." But nobody else could tell them, and he wouldn't hire anybody else to do it. Today had to be the day.

Dr. Wells put on his lab coat and his glasses, as he knew that Mrs. Kabra preferred a professional appearance. He looked into his mirror and, seeing two tired, very saddened brown eyes, let out a sigh. Then he left his small room and walked down the prison corridors.

~\/~/\~\/~/\~\/~

Isabel Kabra was hitting her pillow when the doctor came in the room. Well, she was not actually hitting it. She would never stoop that low Well, she was hitting it, but she wasn't angry, of course. Anger gave the eyes wrinkles. Well, she was angry, but not at the pillow. That was ridiculous. She was hitting the pillow to convince any insects that might have flown in to get out at once. And today, her rage was directed at Amy Cahill. It alternated every day. Isabel thought that focusing on one person would clear her mind, as well as help her avoid the "i-word."

Insane. That's what people had been calling her. Insane. The reporters and prosecutors at her trial, the enemies in the gauntlet, the prison guards that delivered her paper and pens each day. They all thought she was insane, going bonkers if not already there. The warden had cautioned the doctor, "Be careful around _that_ inmate. She's killed more than a few people. Her mind is _definitely _unstable." Sthey thought.

And, though Isabel would never have dreamt of telling herself the truth, they were right. She _was_ insane. But not because she had killed some people or, at least, let them die. Not because she had been stuck in this 6-square-meter prison for sixteen years. Because of her children. They were utter failures. Natalie, the child she had chosen to take her place, the one with the mind most like hers, she had turned over to _their_ side. She could not be trusted with the Lucian leadership, in no sense of the term; ergo, she was a failure. But he—he was worse. He had willingly joined the Madrigals and married their leader. The granddaughter of Grace Cahill. The daughter of the people whose murders she was here for. The beginning of her ruin.

"Mrs. Kabra? Mrs. Kabra?"

Isabel looked up, though she didn't need to. The doctor was the only one who treated her with any form of respect in this forsaken place.

"Yes? I assume you are here with results?"

The doctor shifted his feet. "Yes. Yes. M-may I come in?"

Isabel looked at the man. He meant, _May I come in safely?_ She considered for a slight time. "I suppose I can condescend to let you in here," as if this place was under her control. She studied the man again. His shoulders were erect, his step was brisk, he met her gaze, but when she looked into his eyes—when she looked into those eyes, she saw that all was not well.

She tossed her hair, which was still luxurious though matted in places. "I do have cancer. You need not hesitate to tell me. Cowardice is not becoming. But tell me, is it in my breast, my heart, or my lungs? I can feel that it is in that area."

Dr. Wells stared at her in shock. He blinked his eyes. He blinked them again. He finally managed to stammer, "Yes. Yes. Your breast, madam. And it seems to be serious." Isabel saw his eyes flicker away from hers for a second. Not only serious.

"Terminal, doctor. Just say it. Why, this is _my_ body and you have not the courage to say it. The weaklings employed here. It's absurd!"

"But, but madam, you do understand, do you not? I am terribly sorry." And Isabel could tell he was, but she wasn't willing to accept any unwanted pity-partying doctors wholeheartedly.

"Of course I do. Do you take me for a fool? Now leave." She swept her hand towards the door like it was the French Triumphant Arch. "You have given your report. You are excused."

The doctor looked at her for a second with a mixture of astonishment, puzzlement, and genuine sadness. Then he left the small room and locked the door again.

Isabel walked over to the tiny window at the foot of her cot and looked out on a factory. A factory. For years, her view had been of fountains flowing amongst a perfect garden. And now, she was going to die with nothing to look out to except a factory.

But here she was, feeling regretful. Isabel knew full well that regret brought ruin. Hesitate for a second, and whoever's out to get you will succeed. She would keep going as long as she could, because cancer wasn't going to take her if Isabel Kabra had any say. And Isabel always got her way. Except for being here, but she had chosen the course that took her here. Isabel was not going to die like a dog, die like some animal in this wretched place, not going to die like-

Like Grace.

Isabel remembered Grace. When she was growing up in Liverpool, in the summer, her "aunt Grace" would come pick her up on Saturday and take her back to her summer house in Winchester. They would spend the day looking at flowers, or chasing Grace's Mau, Lionheart, across the orchard. Sometimes, Grace would take her to an art museum, or an antique shop. (Grace loved history, for some reason she didn't know at the time.) And sometimes, on the best days, Grace would bring her daughter Hope. Hope wasn't as forward or as outgoing as Isabel, but her companionship always left you feeling comfortable inside. And Isabel longed to be comfortable.

But then Grace started traveling. And she stopped visiting Isabel in Liverpool. She wrote her letters, to be sure, but she never came back again. And Isabel hardened. She went to Oxford and became the queen of the university, taking a husband but not a king. And she forgot Grace for a time, never responding to letters, never returning calls, never forgetting that Grace had left her. She had two children, her pride and joy at the time. And a little idea sparked in her mind. She finally remembered how much Grace had done for her when she needed it. So she asked her aunt if she might come visit them in London, for Ian and Natalie's sake.

Grace's response was not what she wanted to hear. She wished to stay in Boston, with her daughter and her family. Perhaps Isabel might come visit them?

Isabel could not bear to be second fiddle to the woman who had once cherished her as a daughter. She visited Boston, most certainly. And set a house on fire. The stated reason was to force Hope Cahill and Arthur Trent to relinquish their findings. The real reason, though, was oh-so-different. If no one knew she had set the fire, perhaps Grace would take her into Hope's empty place? Once Isabel had a goal, nothing could stand in her way.

But Grace knew. How could Grace be fooled? She wrote Isabel a formal letter the next week, perfectly polite, but clearly stating that Isabel could never come back to her again.

So Isabel hated Amy and Dan Cahill. They had taken her children's places, as Hope Cahill had taken hers. Isabel's plans had been foiled. The only Lucian solution was revenge.

That woman had once loved her. Isabel had once loved Grace too. But it could never be the same again, Isabel knew.

Or did she?

Facing death makes you think on life, your life. And Isabel was thinking of hers, try as hard as she could to tell herself she would not die. But what she kept remembering, though she tried hard, so hard, to cast it aside, was Grace. Grace showing her the monarch butterfly, telling her she could be a queen, too. Grace plucking a rhododendron and putting it in Isabel's hair, saying that it was a tribute to her beauty and charm and kindness. Grace telling her, the last time she spoke with the child Isabel, "You will make me proud."

"You will make me proud."

Isabel hadn't. Isabel had torn part of her aunt's life away. Sitting on the cot in her tiny room, though, she found herself wishing she could try again, wishing she could start over, wishing she could have made Grace proud. Isabel finally understood regret, remorse, repentance, if only to a minute degree. But the emotion now cast over filled her. She had never been so filled before.

Isabel fell back on the cot, really thinking about what she did, and what she could do for the first time.

She could try to accept her own children.

She could try to accept Amy and Dan.

She could try to make Grace proud.


	3. Winning

"…the only thing left to stop him is…"

"…new crisis in India about..."

"…in prison at Newgate…"

"…could've cared less about the Iraqis…"

Snippets of conversation poked into Ian Kabra's ears as he exited the UN headquarters. On a normal day, he would have listened carefully for any hint of anything related to Vesper or Cahill activities, but this was not a normal day. Amy had told him to expect a call from his sister at home at 8:00, and it was already 7:15. He was late. And Ian never accepted being late.

He quickly exited the tall black building he now called home at least half of the time and stepped out into the chilly November air. He called for the first taxi he saw, a small yellow thing with frost forming on the windshield. The passenger door abruptly swung open, and he stepped inside.

"82nd and 40th West, and don't dally!" The taxi driver slammed his right foot on the gas pedal and started the car.

Taxis seemed to be Ian's best friends these days. He could not stand the subway system. The noise, the crowdedness, the _putridity—_it was sickening. Thus, he took a taxi to work and back every day, not to mention the times he went to lunch or a business meeting in the city. And the privacy and quiet of the small mustard-colored vehicles suited him. Ian was a thinker, not a talker, and thinkers prefer silence.

It was bizarre that Natalie wished to call him, though. She emailed them once a week with the latest happenings in her fashion line, Universal Force, in San Francisco, and he sometimes emailed her about how his work as secretary to the United Kingdom ambassador was progressing, but they didn't talk much besides that. And that she had to arrange a time to converse? Quite peculiar. Perhaps she was engaged and wished to be approved. They had agreed that they would each take their father's place in giving their blessing for the other, as neither Vikram nor Isabel was there to do as much. _That would make sense_, he mused to himself. And he was too tired from his job today to try and think of any other solution.

"Sir?"

Ian started, but quickly adapted the unreadable façade he usually wore. "Yes?"

The driver pointed out the window. Ian glanced quickly in the direction of his finger. "I see. I suppose you need to drive elsewhere now?"

"Yes, sir. The total is-"

"Forty-one fifty-seven," Ian interrupted. "I calculated. Here." He thrust a fifty dollar bill into the astonished driver's hand. "Keep the change."

"But sir, how-"

"Did I calculate so quickly? Simple."

"You keep-"

"Finishing your sentences exactly how you wanted to say them. I know. It's simple, really." He stepped out of the taxi. "Be off. And stop gawking. It makes one look quite undignified." He walked around the corner of the block, ignoring the driver's looks. And it was only 7:38. Excellent.

"Hi, honey!" Amy greeted him at the front door of their apartment cheerfully. "Olivia! Come see Daddy!"

Ian didn't bother to correct her. He didn't like epithets, and being called "Daddy" seemed quite disgraceful to his dignified, authoritative self, but he knew Amy didn't mean any harm. He watched amusedly as a little brown-headed girl wearing a cardboard circle over one eye toddled over to him. And then, as always, his expression melted somehow and he sank down to his kneesn with a smile as his daughter reached him.

"And how is my little Livi doing today?" he asked as he squeezed the little body tight.

"I'm a pot! The best pot ever, I am! Ask Mommy!" Ian looked quizzically at his wife, who mouthed the word "pirate" to him.

_Pirates_. He hated pirates. Actually, he didn't _hate_ them. Hate was for base, lowly people only. He _loathed_ pirates. Pirates and harps and liquid silk and mountains and sharks and quicksand and islands and—he had never realized how many things didn't quite fancy him. But he would try to ignore that, for the time being.

"I see, I see," he said as he stroked a non-existent beard. "My daughter is an excellent pirate."

"See! Livi is an eck-sullunt pot, Mommy! Daddy said so." She turned what of her attention span she had left to Ian. "Have you ever met a _real_ pot, Daddy? Like a really truly scary pot wif a wooden leg?"

"Yes, I have," Ian joked. "Pirates, and monsters, and ogres, and thieves, and murderers, and-" He stopped abruptly.

He had met a murderer.

That wasn't a joke. He looked at his wife, and saw a strange expression on her face. Quite different than the usual fear-and-anger that came up when Isabel was mentioned. He saw _sadness_. And he knew, looking at her face, that she didn't see that in his eyes. She quickly went back to the casserole in front of her. He returned his gaze to Livi, who was asking, "Were they really scary, Daddy? Scary like the monsters you killed under my bed?"

"Of course, honey. But I was fine."

Satisfied, Olivia skipped away singing, "Daddy's seen a pah-ot! Daddy's seen a pot!" Ian stood up and walked over to Amy. "Something's wrong, l-Amy." Now was not the time for teasing.

Amy shook her head, not meeting his gaze. "Mmn-nnn. Nothing."

Ian left it at that. She was so horrible at keeping secrets, she would tell him. In her own time. He was walking to the restroom to wash his hands when the phone rang. He paused in front of the doorway as Amy picked up the phone. "Kabra household, Amy Cahill speaking." She listened for a second, then held out the phone to Ian. "For you."

Ian walked across the wooden floor, each step seeming ominously loud. He took the phone from her outstretched hand, and smiled at her. She smiled back, but it was a grim one. He shook his head and held the phone to his ear.

"This is Ian Kabra. How may I help you?"

~\/~/\~\/~/\~\/~

Never would Ian forget that phone call.

He had expected some cheery news from Natalie; maybe her line had received high rankings, maybe she had found a boyfriend. But how could he have expected that?

Isabel had terminal breast cancer.

Natalie's voice was scratchy and high; undoubtedly, she had been crying. He could hear her fighting back an urge to place her head on his unreachable shoulder and cry. He couldn't believe it. _She_ had shot her and abandoned her and used her and haunted her all of her life, and she wanted to cry? She was a Lucian, she was a Kabra, and she wanted to cry? He didn't understand her.

He didn't understand himself either, though. When Natalie had told him her news, his first reaction was relief. Relief and happiness. And he couldn't place why. Of course, it wasn't because Isabel was dying. Of course it wasn't because he wouldn't have to live with the shame of having her as a mother anymore. Of course it wasn't because every bone in his body felt free from that burden, her burden.

Of course it wasn't.

Of course it was.

If Ian Kabra had been anyone else, he would have cried then.

What was he turning into? Some feeling-less, selfish monster like in his little girl's stories? He didn't expect himself to feel heartbroken or torn to pieces or anything of the sort, but not glad.

Not glad that someone was dying.

Not glad that his mother was dying.

He had been fighting against that Ian for so long. But when what he had once dreamed of was coming true, that side of him was so strong! It made him feel like a Lucian. It made him feel like a _Kabra_. And, for once, he was ashamed of it.

He walked out of his bedroom and to the dinner table, where a steaming casserole and two smiling faces awaited him. Ian noticed that one of them was forced.

"Daddy's back! He's back, he's back! Next, _Livi's _turn to hide!" Olivia said cheerfully. She turned to her mother. "This smells so good, Mommy! You are a good cooker, you are! I know it!"

Amy smiled back at her daughter, a real smile this time. This was what love brought out. It took Ian back to a time when he saw a different girl, his sister, at the same age. Trying for her mother's attention, but never getting it. Seeking to please her father, but never being even recognized as existent. He had once been that way too.

He knew right then. Olivia would not have a cold, unforgetting, unforgiving, selfish father. He needed to preserve what he saw there. That innocence, that sweetness, that simple ignorance of everything that could be wrong. It _needed _to stay, as long as possible. He stood up all of a sudden and walked over his phone. He pressed a few buttons, then held it to his ear.

"Yes, this is Ian Kabra. I need three passports ready as soon as possible. Yes, Amy Hope Cahill, 29, Ian Vikram Kabra, 30, and Olivia Amy Cahill, 4. Have them ready by next week. Thank you. Good day."

He turned to his wife, who had come to stand beside him. She looked into his eyes with an expression that shows a full heart. That was how he felt also, he realized. He kissed the top of her head, and she blushed. Livi looked up at them in wonder.

"Where we go-go now?"

"London, Olivia," he responded as he picked her up and held her tight. "We're going to London."

He couldn't forgive Isabel just yet. That would take much more time. But he was going to do what was right.


	4. Acceptance

Game music swirled around Dan's head as he rapidly punched buttons on the control. The ninja jumped a flying spear and ran for the stairs, trying to reach the door in time. He pressed the up button. The ninja jumped. _That's me, jumping, flying, saving the world with my awesome skills_. Even though Dan was twenty-six, his mind hadn't progressed much. He spent his days like this, basically: eating, going to the park, eating, playing video games, eating, going to work, eating, sleeping, eating again. Amy despaired of him ever finding a girlfriend, but he didn't care. He enjoyed this life.

The ninja on the screen crept to the door, and snuck inside. Dan let out a whoop, followed by a groan. He had completely the whole game, beat level 100, championed all of Japan! But now he needed a new game. He swung his feet off the couch, stepped over an empty pizza box on the floor, and exited his apartment. Now was his car a Toyota or Ford? He always forgot, and today two identical cars were parked beside each other outside of the complex, and he couldn't remember which was his. _Think, Dan. Think…_He stared at each of the cars, trying to remember which one, but both were messy, both had Red Sox bumper stickers, and both of them—well, they were literally the exact same! Except for one of them had a blue sweatshirt on the driver's seat...did he have a blue sweatshirt? _Toyota! Toyota's Japanese._

Dan started the car and drove out of the complex parking lot, stopping at a red light. "We Will, We Will Rock You" suddenly blared through the vehicle. Dan jumped, then sheepishly picked up his phone, quickly glancing around to see if anybody had been watching him. "Hello?"

"Dan. Get to the field, now. Pre-game starts in ten minutes. Where are you?"

"Jerry? A game? Oh, right, the game. I was just heading that way, actually. Traffic's horrible in Boston these days."

"Just get here, Dan. We're waiting for you. Bye."

The light changed to green. Dan changed directions and turned left from the right lane. He ignored the beeping cars and headed out on the highway toward Fenway Park. After college, he had accepted a job as a TV announcer for the Boston Red Sox, and he had become notorious for his memory of everything that had happened, his bad sense of humor, and his tardiness. Mostly his tardiness, by the other announcers. He quickly put on the blue sweatshirt (which _had_ been his after all) with the Red Sox logo emblazoned on it as he reached the park and drove up to a valet.

"Park it at my usual place, and hurry!" Dan practically ran into the building and upstairs. He threw open the door and burst in, only to be greeted by a "You're late. Again."

"Sorry, Jerry. But only a minute!"

"We wanted you here early today, Dan. Remember?" Jerry playfully punched Dan's arm.

"Oh, oh, oh, my arm! I don't think I can talk tonight! My arm's killing me because Jerry the Great punched it! Take me home!"

Jerry laughed. "Jerry the Great will punch you again if you don't hurry!"

Dan quickly put on his headset and seated himself at the chair, and Jerry started the announcing.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the game here at Fenway. Tonight's announcers will be myself, Jerry Remy and this fellow here, Dan Cahill, and the teams this fine evening are the New York Yankees-" Dan made faces at the camera-"against our Red Sox!"

Dan pumped his fist. "Here's a joke for you Sox fans out there: Why are the Yankees called Yankees? It's because they'll "yank yee" if you say something bad about them!"

Jerry groaned. "That was the worst joke ever. As in, _ever_."

"I know it was. Anyway, I've heard some talk recently that Terry Francona…"

Dan could imagine his niece Livi watching the game from Amy's apartment and asking, "Why is Uncle Dan-Dan wearing socks on his shirt? And he spelled Sox wrong! It's s-o-c-k-s! I'll fix it for him when he comes over." Or something of the like. He really liked Livi, and thought her questions hilarious. His thoughts slid to Amy, though, and they weren't as funny. She had seemed really tired last he saw her. And Ian—he didn't like Ian much. After being nearly killed by him a few times, Dan had found no reason to let hard feelings die down. And when Amy had married Ian Kabra, she had moved away from Dan. All the way to New York City. Ian stole Dan's sister away from him, so he was a thief. And, in court, thieves weren't shown mercy.

"Wouldn't you say so, Dan?"

"Oh, oh yes, of course." He had no clue what Jerry was talking about. Jerry shot him a look. Dan shrugged.

"Look at that, there are the players coming out! I can't tell who…"

"It's Youkilis, eagle-eye. Youkilis and Pedroia." Jerry glared at Dan.

And so the game continued.

~\/~/\~\/~/\~\/~

Six hours later, Dan walked slowly back to his car. The Red Sox had won in the 11th inning, but it was almost midnight now. And Dan was still eleven in that late bedtimes did not suit him. He grumped at the valet on his way out, then turned around to apologize. He groaned at all of the traffic and tried to get around it, and almost rear-ended the Nissan parked to his left. All the headlight were blinding him, and the noise outside was deafening. It was not a good time. By the time he got out of the stadium, it was 1:15.

Dan checked his phone at a red light and saw that he had a text message from Amy. He quickly opened it: _Did you get the invitation in the mail today? _Of course not. He replied: _I hvnt been hme since 5, so n. Nope. No. Nyet. Nein. Non. N—nvr mind. I hvnt_. He pressed the send button and took a left onto I-93. Now why would Amy ask him that? Or was it Ian? Whenever he needed to talk to Dan, he used Amy's phone.

It was surprisingly quiet outside really early in the morning. In a large city like Boston, the silence was rare, so Dan savored it. The highway was pretty open, so he stepped up the gas pedal and went a few miles above the speed limit. Only 80 miles per hour. In a 60 mph zone. Not a big deal. He needed to get home and sleep. But he quickly realized how stupid he was acting, and slowed down. _Dunnnnnnnnn-dun-dun-dunnnnnnn-dum-dum-dummedy-dun-dun-dunnnnnnnnnnnnn! _The theme music of his video game suddenly popped into his head, and he began singing it.

"Dunnnnnnnnnn! Dun dun dun dunnnnnnnnnnn dum dum!" he yelled, forgetting his window were open. The lady in the car beside him gave him a funny look and sped up. He stopped. Only ten more miles until he was back home. He checked the clock.1:52. Great.

Fifteen minutes later, Dan pulled into the complex parking lot and parked. He walked up one flight of stairs before remembering to check his mail. _It can wait until morning_, he thought to himself. But then he remembered Amy's message. Maybe she had sent him a four-months late birthday card or something? Well, she had sent him one in February when she was supposed to, and had visited him besides. Maybe it was a belated birthday card from Kabra. Amy had said he had misremembered the date, but Dan was positive that he hadn't forgotten, he had "forgotten." Some might think it strange that he was still waiting for that birthday card, but he was holding it to Ian, along with everything else he had done or not done.

He would check.

Dan trudged down the stairs, already half-asleep. Opening his mailbox, he found two flyers, an envelope with a return address "Ned Starling" and another one that said, "Regale Funeral Home, London, England. _Probably a charity that wants money._ And he walked up the stairs and fell asleep on his couch, forgetting as usual to set his alarm clock.

Three hours later, he woke up with a jolt. London…funeral homes in London…! He got out of bed and immediately ran into the coffee table. Okay, so he wasn't on his bed. It took him a second to relocate himself, but then he raced to the previous day's mail and opened the one from London. A piece of delicate paper tumbled out of the envelope and landed in the pizza box, making a large stain. Oops. Dan pulled it out.

_**You are cordially invited to the funeral of**_

_**Isabel Hollingsworth Kabra**_

_**On July 2**__**nd**__** at Regale Funeral Home—**_

So they had moved her out of prison when they knew she was dying. Dan hadn't thought about Isabel much since Amy had mentioned that she had cancer a few months ago. He wondered if she was going to be buried in her jumpsuit or in normal-person clothes. Neither, he decided. She would wear _Isabel_ clothes, perfect clothes like she alwa—

Isabel was dead.

It took him so long to understand that, when he did, it hit him over the head like a baseball bat. Isabel was dead. She couldn't kill any more people, haunt any more children, give harm to anyone ever again. She was dead.

Wow.

It was pretty impressive what one person's death could do to Dan. A tear rolled down his cheek. But it wasn't for Isabel. He was remembering the Clue hunt, how he had found out that she had killed his parents. He had been an orphan almost all of his life, and every day he thought of his parents. Would he have turned out differently had they not been killed in that horrible fire? Would everything have been different? Of course. And sometimes, Dan would look up at the stars and think of his parents up there, watching him, waiting for him to come. They had each other, and Grace, and Fiske, and almost everybody else that mattered to them.

He only had one person.

He only had Amy.

And it was all Isabel's fault. If not for her, they would have been alive, right here with him.

He could practically hear Amy's voice inside his head, "Don't speak ill of the dead," so he stopped. But then he realized that he and Amy weren't the only orphans.

Ian and Natalie Kabra were, too.

True, they hadn't become actual orphans until about a week ago, he was guessing, but they didn't _ever_ have their parents. Vikram and Isabel had never been around to care for them, and nuture them, and help them grow. When they even noticed that their children existed, it was to teach them in deception and trickery and circumlocuting and even murder, things little children shouldn't know about. The Kabras didn't have real parents, either. They never had.

Dan had had parents for four years. Ian and Natalie never had.

He wondered what that felt like, to live with the respect of the world, where everybody wanted to be you, and know that it was all a lie. Nobody in their life had probably ever felt a shred of pity for the Kabras, because it seemed like they had everything. Wealth, land, power, fame, and two parents.

They really had none.

Maybe that was why Kabra had married Amy. Because he needed somebody he loved to really love him back, to give him what he had never had before. Maybe that was why Amy had always said it was so important that they were together. Dan had needed love then; Grace, Nellie, Fiske, and Amy had all given it to him in turn. Ian needed something now, though he would _never ever_ admit it, even to himself, and his wife and his daughter gave it to him.

Maybe that was why they were together.

Maybe it was okay, after all.


End file.
